


I Belong to You [ARCHIVED]

by howelleheir



Series: Zima & Leto [ARCHIVED] [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Action & Romance, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Angst, Brainwashing, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Double Penetration, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Espionage, Flashbacks, Forced Bonding, Hand Feeding, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Manipulation, Medical Procedures, Mystery, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Nudity, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Shame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:56:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bruce and Tony uncover a tracking chip in Bucky's arm, it leads Steve to an old HYDRA file, a bunker in the Canadian wilderness, and evidence that the team has been badly compromised. (Formerly titled Project Leto) [ARCHIVED - I'm currently in the process of editing and reformatting this work and others in the series into related-but-independent oneshots. A link to that series will be posted here when it's up. This series will not be continued in its present form.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lab

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ignoring any MCU canon past Captain America: The Winter Soldier, so this is somewhat of an AU fic.

“What do we have...here?”

Tony held the small metallic chip up to the light between a pair of tweezers. Seated at his work table was Bucky, his left arm propped up on it, resting in the center of a careful arrangement of all the plates, screws, and other assorted parts that Tony had removed over the last two hours. The chip had been nestled underneath two full vials of liquid ominously connected to a pair of catheters inserted into the axillary vein.

“Bruce, come here,” said Tony, squinting at the chip. There was a small blue LED in the center, blinking on and off in a steady rhythm. “Do you see that?”

“Yeah...some kind of tracker?”

“Maybe. Did you find out what was in those vials?”

Bruce glanced over at the screen near the spectrometer array. “Results just came in. One was...insulin. The other was a glucose solution.”

“Are you diabetic?” Tony asked. Bucky shook his head.

“Tony, look at this,” said Bruce, turning the vials and their attachments over in his hands.

“No mechanism to stop the flow once the vials are opened?”

“So this definitely isn’t a treatment. Each vial would be completely emptied out into his bloodstream almost instantaneously.”

Tony examined the mechanism more closely. “What do you think it’s for? Torture? He acts up, Hydra turns on the insulin, lets him squirm for a little while, then gives him the glucose?”

“Maybe.” Bruce didn’t sound so sure.

“No,” Bucky chimed in. “They didn’t do that. It’s my kill-switch.”

“Then why the glucose?”

As Bucky shrugged, Bruce turned his attention back to the chip. “Tony. The flashes.”

“Yeah, we already established that it’s a tracker--”

“No, look at them.”

Bucky’s eyes shifted uncomfortably from one man to the other as they stared at the chip in silence.

“They slowed down,” said Tony. “From about eighty per minute to, what’s that, about sixty? Sixty-five?”

Bruce nodded. “Yeah.”

“So...the battery’s dying?”

“No, count again.”

After another long pause, Tony said, “Seventy-eight.”

“Any ideas about why the flash-rate is variable?”

“Maybe that’s the trigger?” said Tony, running a hand thoughtfully through his hair. “Outside of a certain range, and it opens up the vial?”

“And maybe if it goes back into range, then the glucose is administered to correct the insulin overdose?”

“Yeah, but what’s the range? And what’s it measuring?”

“Brain activity? It could be monitoring his wave patterns, and if he displays patterns too inconsistent with his conditioning…”

Tony shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be measuring anything once we took it out.”

“So the transmitter is wireless.”

“Then why is he still alive? I’m pretty sure snuggling up to Captain America goes against his conditioning.”

“Okay, so that idea’s out. What other variables might Hydra use to decide whether or not to kill him?”

“Hmm...has to be something he hadn’t done in all the time since he left Hydra. Not brain activity. Definitely not distance, since it’s fluctuated just sitting here.”

Bruce snapped his fingers. “Heart-rate!”

“Why heart-rate, though?”

“Agitation? If he snapped on his handlers, the switch could--”

“No way. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Or if he had an abnormal rhythm. The switch could kill him before he got medical attention and drew any curiosity?”

“So a metal-armed assassin is somehow more suspicious than a dead metal-armed assassin?”

“If the receiver could send back a signal that the switch was activated, maybe Hydra shows up and gets him out before he can draw too much attention. And then, if they get to him in time, they could manually activate the glucose.”

“It’s flimsy,” said Tony. “I don’t think--”

“I’m _telling_ you, that is a heartbeat.”

“Okay, fine. Easy to prove. Take his pulse.”

Bruce turned to Bucky. “Can I see your wrist, please?”

Bucky lifted his right arm up, and Bruce pressed his fingers to the inside of his wrist, watching the chip intently.

“Well?” asked Tony. “Do they match up?”

“No,” sighed Bruce.

“Alright, then. Not heart-rate.”

Bruce shook his head. “Not _his_ heat-rate.”


	2. The Barracks

Steve was waiting outside the lab when Bucky finally emerged, his arm reassembled, minus the parts that could kill him.

“How’d it go?” Steve asked. “Everything alright? What’d they find out?”

Bucky shrugged. “The support on my collarbone was pressing on a nerve, but it was pretty easy to get back into place. They found my kill-switch. It was still working, but they took it out. They’re going to see if they can figure out where it’s triggered from. Could be a base that’s still active.”

Steve nodded. “Good. Hopefully, they find that base, and we can take it out. Who knows if they’re still tracking or monitoring you.”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, knitting his brows as they walked toward the personnel barracks where he’d been staying since Steve had found him.

“Something’s bothering you,” Steve said matter-of-factly as they reached Bucky’s room.

Bucky glanced nervously from Steve to the door and back. “Uh...come in.”

Steve followed through the door. The room was comfortable, but sparse -- just a bed, a small sofa, kitchenette with a fold-out table and two chairs, and a private bathroom about the size of a broom closet. Bucky kept it almost inhumanly neat. If it weren’t for the towel draped over the bathroom door and the house shoes beside the bed, it would have looked vacant.

“So, Steve started, pulling a chair over in front of the couch where Bucky sat. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s probably nothing,” Bucky said, avoiding Steve’s eyes.

“Tell me anyway.”

It took a long time for Bucky to make the words come out, but finally, he sighed and said, “The kill-switch. I know how it works.”

“Did you tell Tony and Bruce?”

“No,” said Bucky. “It probably wouldn’t tell them anything they didn’t already figure out. It’s...Pierce put it in. He knew I was getting harder to control. He was the only handler that could keep me in line. So he decided to put in the kill-switch so that...If he died...But it’s probably not him. There’s a fifteen-minute window. Somebody could have taken it.”

“Taken...what?”

“The transmitter. It’s a bracelet he wore. It read his pulse, and if it stopped for more than fifteen minutes, then the receiver would activate the switch. But...he’s dead and I’m not, so I don’t know who has it.”

Drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of his chair, Steve tried to work out the puzzle. “Had to be someone who was at the Triskellion. Someone who was on the upper floors when Nat and Fury made it out. But there’s no real way to know who -- the place was crawling with Hydra operatives. Could have been any one of them.”

“Surveillance footage?” Bucky offered.

“No. The server was fried in the collapse. We’ve got up to thirty minutes before, which won’t tell us who got ahold of it, but it could narrow it down. I’ll see if I can pull the footage tonight. Maybe it’ll help us know what we’re in for when Tony and Bruce locate the transmitter. Figure out if it’s just one guy or a whole cell of operatives. The leaked SHIELD files could tell us more about rank and assignments of whoever has the transmitter, and whether or not they’re likely to be working alone.”

“So, when you find it,” Bucky trailed off for a second, then steeled himself, looking Steve in the eye. “If it is a base, I want to help take it out.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why? You don’t think I can handle it?! I was taking out their guys by myself for almost two years before you found me. Eight whole cells -- fourteen officers and thirty-seven operatives! You can’t keep me out of the field forever.”

“Buck,” Steve said, taking Bucky’s hand. “It’s not that I don’t think you can do it. But, whoever’s got that transmitter wore it for two years, nonstop. They have to know what it is, which means that Hydra wants you alive. I’m not going to risk losing you to them again.”

Bucky shook his head. “If they want me, why didn’t they just come get me? They’ve had plenty of opportunities. They know they can’t control me...But you think they could, don’t you? That’s why you don’t want me to go.”

“Yeah,” Steve admitted. “I’m really scared that they could.”

“Then you should be just as worried for yourself.”

“Why?”

Glancing off to the side, Bucky made a face that Steve had become all too familiar with since he’d come back, a sort of pained grimace that meant he was fighting off Hydra’s conditioning and breaking deeply ingrained protocols. “When you go looking through the files...look for Project Leto. Pierce was overseeing it, so it’s got to be in there.”

“What is it?”

“It was supposed to coincide with Insight. Just read the file. If you read it and you still think I don’t have just as much business in the field as you...then I won’t argue.”

“Okay, Steve conceded. His curiosity about that file was piqued, but he knew that if he pushed Bucky about it anymore, he might shut down. It was best to steer the conversation as far away from Hydra as possible. “It’s getting kind of late. Let’s worry about this stuff tomorrow. You’ve got to be starving. How about something to eat before I go?”

“I...don’t really have a whole lot. I don’t cook much.”

“Well, let’s see…”

Steve got up and looked through the cabinets. Bucky wasn’t kidding. Saltine crackers and protein bars, salt and pepper, a drawer full of pilfered coffee condiments, and a small box of baking mix seemed to be all that Bucky was living on. The fridge didn’t fare much better -- a half-gallon of whole milk, a little butter, a carton of eggs, and a jar of strawberry jam.

Steve turned around and leaned against the sink.

“Okay,” he said. “I can make this work.”

 

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting down at the fold-out table to two generous stacks of pancakes topped with strawberry jam and sweetened with Bucky’s sugar-packet collection, and four scrambled eggs apiece.

Bucky took one bite of his eggs, then set down his fork and closed his eyes.

“Buck?” Steve said, laying a concerned hand on Bucky’s arm. “You okay?”

Bucky didn’t respond for a few seconds, then blurted out, “I didn’t work at the docks on Sundays. Sunday mornings, you’d let me sleep in. The lady who lived downstairs had a sister who raised chickens. She always had more eggs than she could use. She’d leave them in a basket by the door, and on Sundays, you’d cook them up by the dozen. The smell woke me up about the time you were pulling them out of the pan. Then I’d come into the kitchen and…”

Bucky’s eyes opened and his brows furrowed with sudden realization. Steve didn’t have to ask why. The nature of their relationship before Bucky’s accident was a topic Steve avoided; if Bucky didn’t remember, there was no point in adding another complicated layer to their current situation, and even if he did, that had been a long time ago, and a lot had changed.

But now Steve knew from the look on Bucky’s face that he’d remembered that, on Sunday mornings in their apartment in Brooklyn, when he woke up to Steve making their breakfast, he’d walk into the kitchen wearing nothing but a sleepy grin, kiss Steve on the back of the neck, and say, “Who needs a dame with a guy like you around?”

They finished their food in silence. Neither one of them said a word until Steve was standing at the sink washing dishes, and Bucky said, “I...want things to be like that again.”

“Buck,” said Steve, turning away from the sink.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said hurriedly. “That was stupid. Hell, you’ve probably already got somebody, and -- Look, I know it can’t be like it was, I...I’m sorry. Just -- Can we forget about this? Just pretend it never happened?”

“Bucky!” Steve dried his hands and knelt in front of Bucky’s chair, trying in vain to coax his eyes up from the floor. “I don’t have anybody. I just didn’t want to bring...us...up until you were a little more settled in is all. I wanted it to be your decision.”

Bucky’s eyes finally found Steve’s as he asked, “Really?”

“Yeah.”


	3. Intrusive Thoughts

Bucky’s heart felt like it was trying to crawl out of his throat. Steve was inches from his face, a hand resting in his hair, not pushing or pulling him anywhere, just resting, and his eyes were _searching_ Bucky’s. He felt like he was being asked a question he didn’t know the answer to. He tried to remember what it was like before, what it felt like to be so close to this man.

Easy. Relaxed. As natural as breathing. Remembering that helped a little, calmed the panicked fluttering in his chest. He leaned forward and let their lips barely brush, experimentally. The fluttering didn’t return. It felt safe. He opened his mouth, just slightly - and invitation which Steve eagerly accepted, drawing Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth then running his tongue across the inside of it. His mouth was warm. It felt at once totally alien and completely familiar.

Without breaking the kiss, Steve got to his feet, taking Bucky with him. The new angle brought back something -- a pub in Paris with gas lamps on the walls and flickering candles along the bar and at every table. Steve pulling him away into a shadowed alcove and kissing him like this, just out of sight of their comrades. How it had felt so dangerous, but a different kind of dangerous -- the thrilling kind, the sort that was worth taking a risk for. He hadn’t felt that sort of danger in a very long time, probably not since that very moment.

Bucky guided them, walking backwards, toward his bed, while Steve pulled off first his own shirt, then Bucky’s. His knees hit the edge of the bed, and he fell back, pulling Steve with him by the belt. Steve’s mouth went to his throat, his full weight resting across Bucky’s torso. His skin was hot.

Bucky felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and a tightness in his stomach. Another memory. This one was not of Steve.

_A shadowed figure above him, crushing weight and the smell of sweat, cloying, stuck in his nostrils._

He pushed the memory back. Opened his eyes and focused on Steve. It was Steve with him, not the figure. Steve was safe and warm.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve murmured, propping himself up on his hands to look at Bucky’s face.

“Yeah,” he said with a forced smile. “Your belt’s kind of digging in, though.”

“Sorry. Here.” Steve stood up and Bucky tried not to flinch at the sound of his belt coming undone and sliding out of the belt-loops. As soon as the belt was on the floor, Steve was back on top of Bucky, trailing kisses over his collarbones. Bucky’s breath caught in his throat when Steve’s lips strayed down to brush a nipple.

At the gasp, Steve lifted his head. “Is that--”

“Good.” Bucky said quickly. It wasn’t a lie this time.

Satisfied that it really was alright, Steve let his tongue dart out across it, then sucked. Bucky groaned at the warmth darting straight down his spine, pulled Steve back up to his mouth, and kissed him again, deeper than before, and now their hips were level, pressed close and he could feel…

_Hands on his hips, digging in hard, but he couldn’t pull away from them. His mind and body both were numbed out with some drug they’d given him and all he could do was groan weakly in protest._

Steve gave a little roll of his hips that made Bucky throw his head back into the mattress with a hiss, then another, until Bucky’s jeans felt suddenly too tight and rough, and he gasped, “Get me out of these.”

Nodding, Steve pulled back and clumsily unbuttoned Bucky’s jeans and pulled them down to his ankles and then off, tossing them to the side. His hand paused on the button of his own pants. “Is it okay if I…?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky slid further up the bed while Steve stripped down.

_Naked and lying on his back. Knowing what came next. Sometimes just one man, sometimes five or six of them, one right after the other, pawing at him with their rough, sweaty hands._

Steve straddled Bucky’s thighs and let his hands trail over Bucky’s stomach, sweeping thumbs over hip bones, into the creases of his thighs, then leaning forward and kissing up from his stomach to his throat. The friction of Steve’s body dragging along his forced a low moan from Bucky’s lips, and then a harsh, quavering sigh as he felt their cocks press together. His hips jerked up involuntarily at the contact and set off a chain reaction that had them both rocking together in a steady rhythm and letting out quiet, needy noises between kisses across each other's necks and shoulders and mouths.

He caught Steve glancing over at the nightstand with a desperate expression that he recognized immediately, and reached across to pull the drawer open and retrieve the jar of vaseline that he used to sooth the skin on his side where his left arm always left a raw patch.

“You’re sure it’s okay?” Steve asked, taking the jar reluctantly.

“Promise.”

_At least he’ll use it._

Shifting to sit in between Bucky’s legs, Steve opened the jar and coated his first two fingers.

_That sadistic bastard, Rollins, lubing his hand up to the wrist with Militec-1, a twisted grin on his face._

“You don’t have to do that,” Bucky said.

Steve frowned slightly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Leaning back, drawing up his knees, and closing his eyes, Bucky said, “You won’t.”

A few seconds later, Steve was over him, balanced on one arm and pressed against him, slick and warm. Bucky swallowed hard and focused on just breathing as Steve leaned slowly forward, sliding in at the slowest, most careful rate he could manage, stretching him open. Bucky bit back a yelp at the pain. He hadn’t expect it to burn so badly, even though it had been two years since…

_One man behind him and another in front, and a flash of searing pain as they --_

“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “Too fast?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, it’s good.”

He wasn’t going to ruin this. He wasn’t going to let Steve know that it hurt, or that he was having trouble keeping those men out of his head. He just wanted to be able to do this. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his hips up to meet Steve’s. A little flood of relief washed over him when Steve’s cock hit his prostate. The shockwave from that drowned out the pain almost entirely, made his hands fly up to grip the headboard. Reassured, Steve wrapped an arm behind Bucky’s neck, pressing his cheek against Bucky’s and thrusting in a slow and measured rhythm. His breath was warm at Bucky’s ear, heavy and laced with soft growls.

_In that house, with the curtains drawn. A man growling into his ear as he fucked him on the couch, gently compared to the rest of them, but so intense. A hand on the back of his neck, at once possessive and protective. The man’s mouth finding his to muffle his begging cries. The way the man’s cock stretched and filled him, the ache deep in his belly. The man’s breath hitching, the way it made him feel to know that he was being good for his master. Fighting that heat building at his core, struggling to hold it back until he was given permission, and pressing his face hard into the cushions. Wrapping his thighs around the man’s waist and feeling him push deeper, almost too deep. The man’s hand threading into his hair and gripping tight, pulling. Both of them breathing raggedly. Begging to be allowed to come. A sudden, sharp inhale, then a deep, breathless groan, followed by another, longer and louder this time, and then one more, along with a pulsing surge of heat as the man came inside him. The man’s hand wrapping around his cock, and, finally having his permission, letting go…_

“Bucky?”

Steve was still over him, but was off to the side now, looking worried with a palm pressed to Bucky’s shoulder.

He felt almost too sick to his stomach to get the words out, but managed. “Oh, god...what did I do?”

“Nothing. It’s okay. You just sort of...blanked for a second. I thought…”

Sitting up, Bucky pulled the blanket over himself, suddenly embarrassed.

“I’m okay. I just…” he trailed off, then realized there was no point in lying. Steve had obviously noticed that something was wrong. “I had a flashback.”

Steve looked like he might cry. Bucky couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. It just happened.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Bucky shrugged. “I started having them earlier.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I had it under control. But that last one just...felt really real,” he said. “It was Pierce…”

An expression flashed over Steve’s face that Bucky couldn’t quite identify, something hurt and angry, but it quickly softened into concern. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, standing shakily and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. “Just need a shower.”

He hurried into the bathroom and stepped into a stream of water as hot as it would go.


	4. Partial Matches

 All Steve could do was stare at the bathroom door, blindsided. How had he managed to miss Bucky having flashbacks? The answer was simple, and he hated himself for it - he hadn’t been paying attention, and he saw only what he wanted to see.

He sighed and contemplated his options. His instinct was to check on Bucky, but that wouldn’t help now. He needed some time, and Steve had to give it to him or risk losing all the progress they’d made. So the next best thing was to do something that might actually help him sever the last remaining ties he had to Hydra. He needed to investigate the files and see if he could figure out anything about who might be wearing that transmitter.

Going over the the kitchenette, he filled a glass with ice and water, and left it on the nightstand, along with a note reading:

_B,_

_I’m going to do some work. Let’s talk later._

_-S_

 

In his office, Steve pulled up the SHIELD files and got to work, starting with surveillance and relevant reports from everyone who was in the building at the time. Most of the Hydra operatives were in the control room or its immediate vicinity, with additional operatives surrounding the building, but very few were on the upper floors, only about twenty in total. 

Steve made a list of the operatives and their positions, and pulled up their files. He figured someone would have to have clearance to work with the Asset in order to know about the transmitter, so he struck the names that didn’t from his list, leaving nine. Rumlow was among them, but he had been engaged with Sam until the moment of the crash, and then taken away in critical condition, so he was off the list. Of the remaining 8, any one of them could have been the one to take the transmitter. They were all STRIKE, of a similar rank, but without the missing footage, there was no way to tell which of them it had been, no matter how much he poured over the footage or the operatives’ files.

He picked up the phone and dialed Tony.

“Yeah?” He sounded a little manic.

“Hey, are you busy?”

“Depends. Do you need me to leave the lab?”

“No. Just had a question. Did you manage to get coordinates from that receiver?”

“Yeah, haven’t had a chance to check it out yet, though.”

“Can you text them to me? I’m trying to figure out who took the transmitter off of Pierce. Got it down to eight potentials. I figured I could run the area through Strategy Assessment and if I can narrow it down a little more based on assignment history and specialties.”

Tony clicked his tongue. “ _Text_ them to you?!” he scoffed, “Hang on. FRIDAY, the chip coordinates from earlier to Captain Rogers, please.”

“Hello, Captain Rogers,” FRIDAY’s voice rang out from nowhere in particular. Steve would never get used to that.

“Hey, FRIDAY,” he said awkwardly.

“The coordinates are 47.306726, -76.495508. Did you get that?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Anything else I can do?”

“No, that’s all. Thank you.”

“Gotta go,” said Tony. There was a strange, high-pitched, mechanical whine in the background. “Talk to you later, Cap.”

“Bye, Tony.”

Steve hung up the phone and turned back to his computer screen. He opened Strategy Assessment, a program originally developed for SHIELD to analyze terrain and plan operations. Tony had made some pretty extensive adjustments - his version of the program had live input from his private satellites, using lifted Project Insight data to distinguish hostiles from allies and civilians. Each member of the team had a profile in the program that could be used to run offensive and defensive simulations, or to generate operation plans with the highest chances of success.

He input the coordinates and waited for the analysis to run. According to the coordinates, the transmission was coming from La Verendrye Wildlife Reserve in Quebec, on a small island called Ile Heafy. If it was a base, there was no sign of it. The island was on a canoe route near a primitive campground, but there was nothing on the island itself. Steve ran an activity analysis for the past seven days. An alert popped up on the screen.

 

_1 Pattern Detected._

 

Steve clicked the alert, and a flag appeared on the map, following a dotted line from the input coordinate marker, down to the shore, where it rested for a moment, and then back. The simulations clock showed the subject take the path once a day starting around 05:00, returning by 08:00. He clicked on the flag indicating the subject.

 

_Subject Profile:_

_Subject Unknown. No Match in Database._

_Classification Unknown_

_Subject Analysis:_

_Caucasian Male_

_45-50 years_

_5’10”_

_172lbs_

_Refine and Review Partial Matches?_  

 

That was odd. Steve had never seen the database fail to recognize or classify a subject. He clicked _Refine_ and added _SHIELD_ and _Hydra_ to the affiliations, then brought up the partials to review.

 

_2 Partial Matches:_

_Lukin, Sasha_

_62% Match_

_Durami, Anthony_

_28% Match_

 

Neither name was on his list, but he would have to check aliases to be sure. He brought up the profile on the first name. The photo was an old Russian-issued passport dated 1953. A scrawny teenager.

 

_Subject Profile:_

_Lukin, Sasha_

_Caucasian Male_

_b. 1936_

_d. Unknown_

_5’10”_

_120lbs_

_Subject Classification:_

_Civilian_

_Subject Affiliations:_

_HYDRA (secondary)_

_KGB (secondary)_

_Kronas Corporation (secondary)_

_Roxxon Oil (secondary)_

_Related Subjects:_

_Lukin, Aleksander (adptv. father)_

_Last Active: Dec. 17, 1955_

_Location unknown._

 

Steve doubted this was his man. The age was about four decades off from any of the STRIKE operatives on the list. The second partial’s profile was briefer, but much more interesting.

 

_Subject Profile:_

_Durami, Anthony_

_Caucasian Male_

_Subject Classification:_

_SHIELD (Specialist - Surveillance)_

_Last Active: Oct. 2, 1991_

_COMPLETE PROFILE AND DOCUMENTATION REDACTED._

 

Now things were getting really strange. Steve rubbed his temples. If only Fury hadn’t been exaggerating when he said that the Insight satellites could read DNA. Durami’s photo was a blurry still from a closed circuit camera. He was a blond man of approximately the right height and weight, but the age was still wrong. Steve would guess he was around 40 in the photo, which would put him in his sixties now. It was possible that the operative was a son or grandson of one of the partials, but there were no Lukins or Duramis on the list.

In his desperation, Steve sent both men’s photos to a separate facial recognition program. It was slow, but more thorough than one built into Strategy Assessment. He left it running in the background while he went back to the database of SHIELD files. Curiously, Steve typed the name of the file Bucky had mentioned into the search bar, _Project Leto_.

The file opened instantly. Steve didn’t understand what it could possibly be relevant to. The file-path revealed that it was stored alongside Cold War era accounting reports from a SHIELD office in Moscow. The folder was labeled _Проект ЛЕТО_ , and held a single pdf of the same name, and handful of numbered video files.

In spite of his reservations, Steve opened the pdf and turned on the archive’s automatic translation feature.


	5. Project LETO

_Project LETO_

_Summary of Activities and Reports_

_The subject was found on April 14, [redacted] at [redacted] by members of a drilling expedition. The organization was alerted to the subject’s presence and the subject was extracted. Once it was determined that the subject was viable, resuscitation and stabilization were initiated. The subject regained consciousness approximately eight hours after resuscitation, presenting with confusion, disorientation, and severe agitation. The subject was sedated and restrained, and turned over to [redacted] for initial conditioning. [Redacted] administered twelve alternating rounds of electroconvulsive therapy and suggestive imaging, followed by a session with the subject’s handler to establish familiarity. The subject was initially reluctant to bond with his handler, so [redacted] performed an additional six rounds of ECT and SI. In the subsequent session with his handler, the subject was significantly more compliant. The subject accepted food and water from the handler, but then requested to be set free. When refused, the subject again became agitated, attempting to escape his restraints. Because of the sensitive time-table, the subject was immediately given another six rounds of ECT and SI, and then another session with the handler. Prior to this session, the subject was injected with dopamine, oxytocin, and AVP to encourage quicker bonding. The subject displayed significant cognitive impairment, but recognized his handler as a non-threat. The subject responded to commands and was compliant. When given directives by technicians and operatives, however, the subject displayed little to no compliance without a direct order from his handler. Since the subject’s level of compliance and memory impairment were consistent with Stage One conditioning, the subject was given a final intensive session of ECT only, twice an hour for six hours at the highest tolerable voltage. He was then allowed to interact with his handler for thirty minutes while being prepped for transport and given a subcutaneous implant which was designed to mimic his previous coma-state for at least twenty-four hours. Once sedated, the subject was released to the transport team. Next anticipated point of contact will be when the subject is moved to [redacted]. Follow-up recommended at that time to bring the subject up to a minimum of Level Four compliance, followed by a maintenance period of no less than eighteen months at two or more sessions per month before the subject is sufficiently prepped for full programming. At this time, the subject’s fragmentation appears complete. The subject is an excellent candidate for the project._

_April 16, [redacted] - The subject arrives at the special containment facility at [redacted] in New York City._

_April 17, [redacted] - The subject regains consciousness and displays agitation, paranoia, and aggression. The subject escapes containment, but is returned unharmed. When interviewed, the subject retains complete fragmentation and has no memory of his initial conditioning._

_April 18, [redacted] - The subject is moved to [redacted]. After all operatives unaffiliated with the organization have cleared the site, the subject is approached and triggered into B-State by his handler. The subject appears comforted by his handler’s presence. Initial conditioning is tested and found to be intact. The subject displays Level One compliance._

_April 19, [redacted] - Stage Two conditioning begins. The subject displays satisfactory progress. Fragmentation remains intact, with A-State and B-State displaying no significant overlap._

_April 24, [redacted] - Stage Two conditioning complete. The subject displays Level Four compliance in B-State, and is easily triggered from A-State to B-State and back. The subject’s handler recommends adding a third, intermediate state to facilitate complete integration of the A-State once programming is fully established._

_April 25, [redacted] - The subject is triggered into B-State and a second fragmentation is induced. This C-State is aware of the A-State’s actions, thoughts, and beliefs, but retains the compliance of the B-State. In C-State, the subject is nearly indistinguishable from the A-State. The primary distinguishing factor between the two states is the subject’s body language. In C-State, the subject displays marked postural deference toward other individuals. While in C-State, the subject is not aware of his conditioning, but instinctively acts upon it, justifying his compliant actions with reasons that would be acceptable to the A-State, such as courtesy toward guests or prior intent to perform the compliant action. The subject is given twelve rounds of ECT while in C-State to destroy memories of testing. Subject is returned to A-State and observed remotely. Both Primary and Secondary fragmentation appear intact. Subject is cleared for return to New York beginning April 27th._

_May 8, [redacted] - Following [redacted], the subject is relocated to Washington, DC, in order to work in closer proximity to his handler and placed on a team of operatives affiliated with the organization._

_June 1, [redacted]-March 28 [redacted] - The subject undergoes maintenance with his handler. No issues reported._

_March 29, [redacted] - The subject is approved for full programming._

_April 2, [redacted] - Subject shows signs of possible malfunction. Operatives deployed to contain the subject, but containment is unsuccessful. The subject escapes and is tracked to [redacted]. Aggressive attempt at containment fails. [Redacted] dispatched to contain the subject._

_April 3, [redacted] - Subject is contained, but escapes containment._

 

_Project documents compiled, summarized, and redacted by Anthony Durami._


	6. Video Evidence

Steve stared, slack-jawed, at the name in the footnote of the document. There was his man. As he tried to wrap his head around it, figure out what it all meant, beyond the fact that Durami was definitely involved with Bucky’s brainwashing, the icon for the facial recognition software flashed brightly.

He had a match.

He opened the program and gasped at the message on the screen.

 

_MATCH FOUND._

_Lukin, Sasha [input] - 100% MATCH; Durami, Anthony [input] - 100% MATCH:_

_Pierce, Alexander G. [deceased]_

 

Strategy Assessment hadn’t found a complete match because it cleared files marked “Deceased”, and without the information from Pierce’s file, his aliases’ files had only partially matched. But it was impossible. For one thing, Pierce was dead. For another, the ages of each man - Lukin, Durami, and Pierce - were all wrong.

Steve was stewing on these two facts when he caught a glance of his reflection in the glass top of his desk, looking under thirty and much more alive than his 1945-issued death certificate would imply. He chuckled to himself at the contradiction. Then laughed, the sounds growing, crescendoing and quickly becoming hysterical. Bucky had told him that Pierce was in charge of Project Leto. His chest felt tight.

A panic attack. He was having a panic attack. Recognizing what it was helped him focus. Slow his breathing. Name ten objects in the room.

Back in control, he shook his head at the screen. He had to be certain.

He uploaded Pierce’s file manually into Strategy Assessment.

Immediately, the flag above the subject on Ile Heafy turned from red to green. It was a positive match.

It had to be wrong.

Steve quickly went back to the file. The videos. They had to prove it wrong. If they documented the experiments, they would show the man in charge. They would show Durami, and maybe he would look a hell of a lot like Pierce, but he would be a different man. He opened the first one.

 

A man on a slab, naked, covered with heat packs, and surrounded by glowing red lamps and monitoring equipment, all flat-lined except for the body temperature, which was slowly rising. 83...84...85...86...87...88...89…

As soon as the temperature reading hit 90, an alarm went off and several men in lab coats rushed into view, crowding around the man on the slab and clearing away the heat packs. One of them brought over a defibrillator and, as soon as the others were clear, shocked him. Once. Twice. The third time sent the monitors into a frenzy of activity. After a few minutes, the medics cleared out as quickly as they had come. The timestamp jumped forward seven hours and forty-seven minutes. The heat packs were gone, half the lamps turned off, and the temperature now read 100.2. The man stirred, then shakily pulled himself upright. He turned his face toward the camera.

Steve felt sick.

He had known since Bucky brought up the file, but had pushed the knowledge back, denied it, ignored it, but now there was no getting around the facts. Steve was watching himself on the screen, eyes darting wildly from one end of the room to the other, hands ripping loose IVs and monitors, legs kicking out savagely at the medics who had rushed back into the frame to restrain him. The voice screaming incoherently, though rough and tired with disuse, was unmistakably his own. And then, as he slumped back onto the table and the medics secured his arms and legs to it with mag-cuffs, a man in a grey suit approached him. He never showed his face, but he didn’t need to. He spread his arms, palms braced against the lip of the table, and leaned slightly forward, looking Steve up and down.

“Tell Montgomery our friend is ready for him,” he said. Hearing Alexander Pierce’s voice sent chills up Steve’s spine, but he kept his eyes firmly planted on the screen. If Pierce was still alive, Steve needed to know everything he could about what he had done to him, everything he was capable of.

 

The timestamp jumped forward again, and Steve, conscious but obviously drugged, was strapped into what looked somewhat like a dentist’s chair, a bite-block in his mouth. A man with neat blond hair and a bowtie sat at one of the monitors attached to the chair and surrounding equipment, typing quickly. As he did, the apparatus above the chair descended, two plates rotating and closing in to cradle Steve’s head. There was a high-pitched whirr and then an low electrical hum and a muffled scream as his limbs began to strain against the cuffs. It went on an agonizing twenty seconds before the hum subsided and his whole body violently shook for a full minute. As soon as the shaking stopped, the plates withdrew and the apparatus above him lifted, rotated, and another arm of it descended, covering his eyes and ears with some sort of visor. It stayed there for five minutes, and then the whole process was repeated eleven more times before the visor withdrew for the final time.

“Ready for you, sir,” the man with the bowtie -- presumably Montgomery -- said.

Pierce pulled up a low stool, set a glass of water with a plastic straw and a small bowl on the cart next to him, and sat to the side of the chair with his back to the camera. Steve’s head turned weakly to look at him, making a feeble attempt at speech.

“Don’t try to talk just yet,” said Pierce. His voice was gentle, almost comforting. It was a tone Steve wouldn’t have thought the man capable of. “I know you’re confused, probably a little scared. But we’re trying to help you.”

“Like hell,” Steve rasped.

“You need to trust us,” Pierce said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I promise you--”

“Get your damn hands off of me,” spat Steve, turning his head away defiantly.

Pierce sighed, and, nodding to  Montgomery, walked out of frame. The chair sprung to life again, but the session was shorter this time -- only about half as long. When the visor and plates returned to their neutral position, Pierce took his seat again.

“Hey, there,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. I want to help you. Do you understand?”

Steve nodded. “Who are you?”

“Call me Alex. Here,” Pierce held up the glass of water to Steve’s mouth. “Drink a little bit of water.”

Steve took a few sips from the straw before his head fell back onto the support.

“Are you hungry?”

“Don’t give him food,” Montgomery chided, not taking his eyes off of the monitors. “You shouldn’t even give him water. He’s got at least another six rounds to go before we send him out.”

Pierce clicked his tongue. “I’m sure just a little bit won’t hurt. He hasn’t had anything to eat since he went under. He’s probably starving.”

“Sir, if he aspirates--”

“You’ll have a whole team to help.”

Montgomery gave up the argument, visibly biting his tongue, and Pierce retrieved a small bundle of white grapes from the bowl on the cart and plucked one free.

“Open,” he said, holding it up to Steve’s mouth.

Steve obeyed, and accepted five grapes in total before Montgomery cleared his throat loudly and Pierce set the remainder aside with a soft chuckle.

“What are you doing to me?” Steve mumbled, glancing around, concerned, at all the equipment.

“You were in an accident,” Pierce said. “We’re treating you."

“Treating me for what? How bad is it?”

“Not nearly as bad as it could have been, but you’ve had pretty extensive brain damage. This equipment is helping to reverse that damage,” said Pierce, again laying a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Can you take the cuffs off?”

“I’m afraid those are necessary,” Pierce replied. “The treatment involves inducing controlled seizures. We don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“Seizures?” Steve asked, lifting his head from the chair. “You mean _shock treatment_?! Let me out of this thing, I don’t want it.”

“Sorry. I can’t do that.”

“The hell you can’t,” Steve snapped, jerking his arms against the cuffs. “I don’t have any brain damage, and I don’t want whatever you think you’re doing to help me. Now let me go!”

Pierce shook his head. “Calm down--”

Steve cut him off with a string of obscenities, fighting so violently against his restraints that the chair creaked in protest. Montgomery leaned over to his IV and pressed a button, and his struggle grew gradually weaker over the course of several seconds, until it ceased entirely.

“How much time do we have?” Montgomery asked.

Pierce checked his watch. “About nine hours before the transport team picks him up.”

“Which means I have less than three to get him fragmented, compliant, and bonded. He’ll need a six-hour session just to wipe all this out before he goes back, not to mention the time it’ll take to get him prepped.”

“Think you can manage?”

Montgomery nodded. “I’ll just have to be a little more aggressive. I’m increasing the voltage and duration, and I’ll give him the D-O-AVP this time. It’ll work best if I give you a small dose, too. And I’ll need to let him out of his restraints. Do you want the STRIKE team present?”

“No,” said Pierce. “He’s not going to learn to trust me with a room full of guns pointed at him. Besides, if you’ve done your job, he won’t be a threat.”

Pierce took his jacket off and moved his stool away from the chair, closer to the camera, so that he was only visible from shoulders to waist. Montgomery, meanwhile, set the chair into motion again, and then brought a syringe over to Pierce.

“Left arm, please,” he said.

Pierce rolled up his sleeve and presented his arm, revealing a tightly-fitting bracelet resting just above his watch. It was plain - just a narrow silver band with a hatch-clasp. Steve was certain that it was the transmitter.

Montgomery administered the injection, and then glanced over his shoulder at Steve. The visor was just coming down over his eyes. The session was shorter than the first, but longer than the second, and seemed more intense. The shaking lasted for several minutes after each shock, and when it was over, Steve was completely limp. Montgomery retrieved another syringe, much fuller than the one he’d given to Pierce, and emptied it into the port on Steve’s IV.

“You two,” Montgomery called off to the side. “Release the restraints and take him over to that couch..”

He then turned to Pierce as two medics began to lift Steve out of the chair and carry him off.

“He should be conscious in under a minute. The D-O-AVP will be more effective if he can get as much skin-contact as possible. You should open your shirt and be making contact when he wakes up. Maintain contact for at least five minutes if you can. If he becomes agitated, back away immediately and call for help.”

 

The camera cut out, and the timestamp advanced forward just under thirty seconds. It now pointed at a small leather sofa where Pierce sat, face turned from the camera as always, supporting Steve’s full weight against his chest. A blanket was draped over Steve’s shoulders, and he was just beginning to stir.

“What…” he trailed off with a whimper.

Pierce said something too quiet for the camera to pick up, and Steve’s head sank into his shoulder. Ten minutes of inaudible conversation passed before Pierce checked his watch and then helped Steve recline against the back of the couch, pulling the blanket fully closed over his chest, and then buttoning his own shirt again.

“I need you to do something for me,” said Pierce, producing a small wooden disk from his pocket. “See the steel ball at the center? I need you to get it out.”

“Yes, sir,” said Steve, taking the maze-puzzle. He tilted it back and forth for a few minutes, but couldn’t seem to get the ball to the opening.

He was just beginning to look distressed when Pierce said, “Alright. That’s enough. I’m just testing your cognitive function.”

He took the puzzle back and set it aside as Montgomery led Rumlow in, carrying two folding chairs, which he placed on the ground in front of the couch.

“Set those up for us,” Rumlow ordered.

Steve shook his head immediately. “I can’t,” he said.

“Here,” Montgomery offered, lifting up one of the chairs and holding it up by the back. “Pull it open.”

“Why?” Steve asked, glancing over at Pierce.

“Because I’m asking you to,” said Montgomery.

“No.”

Pierce ran a hand comfortingly through Steve’s hair. “Do what he told you to,” he said, and Steve obeyed immediately. Montgomery lifted the other chair the same way. Steve just stared until Pierce prompted, “Go on.”

Rumlow and Montgomery sat down in the chairs, and Montgomery handed Steve a series of physical puzzles like the maze. They took turns prompting him to solve them, but he refused to even attempt them unless Pierce gave him direction. Even then, he only solved two out of the seven, appearing agitated when he failed, but delighted when he managed to complete one. After the last puzzle, Montgomery gave a nod to Pierce, who helped Steve to his feet.

 

The angle changed and the timestamp moved forward by a minute. Steve was willingly climbing into the chair at Pierce’s direction.

 


	7. Missing in Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry,” he said. “About earlier. I’m okay now. If you...If you want to come back.”  
> “I’m knee-deep in this footage,” Steve said, immediately regretting it when Bucky’s face fell.  
> “Oh.”  
> “Wait,” Steve called out as Bucky turned to go. He stood and crossed to the door, wrapping his arms around the other man’s shoulders. “I want to, Buck. I really do. But more than anything, I want to get this transmitter thing figured out. If they’re tracking you--”  
> “I know,” said Bucky, lightly bumping his forehead against Steve’s. “I’m just--I’m embarrassed about earlier is all. Just let me know I get a do-over. Even if it’s not tonight.”

Steve closed the video. He wanted to watch it all. He  _ needed _ to watch it all. But he couldn’t. It was too much. How had they managed to do this to him and leave him with no idea, no missing time, not even the slightest indication that anything was wrong? He wanted to believe that his on-screen counterpart was really someone else. Hydra might very well have the technology to clone someone, and Steve had clung to that possibility for as long as he could, but it just didn’t seem to fit. The dates in the project file matched up perfectly with dates in his own life -- the date he was discovered, the date he woke up at SHIELD headquarters, the time he spent at the Retreat, his return to New York, his move to Washington...it was all there, and he was sure that, when he eventually steeled himself to watch the rest of the videos, it would be there, too.

Just as he had nearly talked himself into opening the next video, there was a timid knock at his office door. Hurriedly, he minimized the file and Strategy Assessment, and called out, “Come in.”

The door clicked slightly ajar. Bucky stood sheepishly, hovering in the doorway without making eye contact. “Hi,” he said.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve sighed, switching off the monitor.

“Are you looking at the surveillance footage?”

“Yeah.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

“Figure anything out?”

“Not yet.” That one was a lie, but there was no sense in getting Bucky more upset than he already was.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About earlier. I’m okay now. If you...If you want to come back.”

“I’m knee-deep in this footage,” Steve said, immediately regretting it when Bucky’s face fell.

“Oh.”

“Wait,” Steve called out as Bucky turned to go. He stood and crossed to the door, wrapping his arms around the other man’s shoulders. “I want to, Buck. I really do. But more than anything, I want to get this transmitter thing figured out. If they’re tracking you--”

“I know,” said Bucky, lightly bumping his forehead against Steve’s. “I’m just--I’m embarrassed about earlier is all. Just let me know I get a do-over. Even if it’s not tonight.”

Steve laughed. “No problem, doll,” he said. It felt so good to be open with him now, to see the way Bucky smiled when he called him that.

Bucky pulled back, looking Steve in the eye. “You get back to work. Come get me if you find anything. And don’t argue. I want to know whatever you find out.”

“Sure thing.”

 

Bucky had gone to bed almost immediately after he left Steve’s office, and the glow from behind the blinds told him that he had gotten at least three hours. Better than he had been doing. Hydra had managed his whole existence with drugs - white pills when he needed to stay awake, blue pills when he needed to go to sleep. Different pills and injections for every function they needed him to perform and supplements and feeding tubes and IV nutrients to keep him fed, all managed by his team of techs. Rarely a minute of his time not regimented, scheduled, and enforced for seventy years. He was still having trouble managing his own time, regulating his own internal clock.

He checked his phone. 7:12. Four hours. It was getting easier. He wondered if Steve was still awake and if he’d found something in the footage. 

Pulling himself out of bed, he slipped into his shoes and made his way down the hall, stopping outside the door to Steve’s room. 

No light coming from under the doorjamb. Either he was asleep, or not there. Carefully, he tried the handle. Unlocked. Steve was bad about locking his door. He trusted his team, no matter how many times he was reminded that the facility employed a lot of people, and there was no guarantee that any one of them might decide to steal some souvenirs to sell on ebay. He kept most of his things in his apartment in the city, anyway. The barracks were just a convenient place to stay when he had a late night at his desk, or an early-morning op.

Bed, empty. Bathroom door, open. He must’ve still been in his office. 

Bucky shut the door behind him and took the elevator to the floor above. On the ride up, he started feeling anxious. Steve often worked late into the night, but it wasn’t like him to pull an all-nighter. As soon as the elevator door started to slide open, Bucky pushed impatiently past it and took the length of the hall at a half-jog, coming to a halt in front of Steve’s office door and knocking a little more forcefully than he’d meant to.

No answer.

“Steve?” he called out, knocking again.

Nothing, and the door was locked. Steve was better about protecting important intel than he was his belongings. Maybe he’d gone down to the gym?

Bucky took the stairs two at a time down to the lower level where most of the training space was. Steve wasn’t in the weight room, any of the training rooms, or on the track.

He’d gone to the cafeteria for breakfast. That was it. Had to be. It was almost 7:30. Steve would be getting hungry about now.

Back up the stairs to the first floor. The cafeteria was nearly deserted - just a few people Bucky didn’t know, facility staff, gathered in small groups. Steve wasn’t with any of them.

The labs? Maybe he’d gone back to talk to Bruce and Tony.

Down again, to the second lower level. There was an access point on this door. He pressed his palm to it, and a voice rang out.

“You do not have access to this level.”

He should have realized he wouldn’t. Every time he’d been to the labs, someone else had been with him, Bruce or Tony or Steve. Frantically, he pushed the call button on the access point marked “Lab A”.

“Yeah?”

A distracted voice. Tony’s.

“Have you seen Steve?”

“Nope. Try the gym.”

Bucky gave a frustrated sigh. “I  _ have _ . He’s not there. I checked his room, his office, and the cafeteria, too. Can I come in? I hate talking through these stupid things.”

The only response was a  _ click _ from the door, which was now unlocked. Bucky went through and followed the hall to the lab.

 

From the state of his hair and the several empty energy-drink cans strewn around the lab, Tony hadn’t gone to bed, either. He was bent over a work table, his face less than an inch from what looked to be a replica of Bucky’s metal arm.

“Should be almost ready for you to test this out,” he said without looking up. “I used the salvaged vibranium from Ultron to--”

“That’s great,” said Bucky sharply. “I need to find Steve.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Tony. “Sure thing. FRIDAY, location on Captain Rogers.”

“Alright,” FRIDAY replied. “One moment. I’m searching now…”

The AI was silent for a while.

“What’s taking so long?” Bucky asked under his breath.

“Captain Rogers is not on site.”

“Last on site?”

“Five forty-three AM.”

“Okay, and GPS on his phone?”

“One moment…Captain Rogers’ phone is in his office.

Tony finally looked up from his work, brows furrowed.

“Equipment check-out?”

“One moment...Captain Rogers accessed his personal equipment locker before he left, and checked out one standard gear bag and one supply kit from general use.”

“Shit. That base. FRIDAY, pull up those coordinates, send them to the briefing room, and get the team up there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added an Illustration for chapter one, so that's up there. Also, Ruled by Secrecy has illustrations for chapters 1-4.
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr now. howelleheir.tumblr.com is my art/fic blog, and mostlyhydratrash.tumblr.com is my general HTP-themed blog where I also rant and reblog (sometimes) tasteful porn.


End file.
